


i'm worse at what i do best

by bulletthestars



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Barely Legal, Crossdressing, Daddy Kink, M/M, POV Second Person, Panties, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletthestars/pseuds/bulletthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nico seduces the drivers who come to visit his father, but the truth is that he's only doing this to get his father's attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm worse at what i do best

It starts with JJ. You don't really know what you should call him, really. When you were younger it had been _Uncle Jyrki_ , polite and distant, then when you had seen him on television you had been confused because they had called him JJ and now, he's here beneath you, eyes indiscernible, shirt thrown aside.

'We shouldn't do this,' he says, and suddenly he looks much older, tired, not like the handsome blonde driver you remember from years ago. You wonder if he'd say the same in Finnish, but there's no way you can find out because you speak four languages, just not that one. JJ speaks in careful, measured tones, and you don't want this. You want guttural moaning and harsh cries and when he opens his mouth, saying 'What would your father think if he-' you lean in and kiss him hard, fisting your hand in his hair.

When you pull away, he's looking up at you, breathless, and you smile. It feels like an accomplishment when you grind against him, slipping one hand between the both of you to cup his erection in his jeans.

'Nico,' he starts, it sounds like a plea and a whine and you shake your head, pressing down, slowly applying pressure.

(You're looking at the boys around you and their cheeks are covered in facial hair that's not quite there and a smattering of pimples and freckles and you've got no interest in gangly limbs pressing against your own in awkward places. Well there're girls and you've seen the girls with the other boys, they're pretty and some of them aren't but it doesn't really matter to you, because you don't care. Lewis smiles at you and tries to get you a date, he's got some girl from school who tells you she'll bring a friend if you need a date and you smile, declining politely. See, the thing is, you don't want anyone your age. Boys, girls, it doesn't matter. There's someone you want, someone you can't have, so this is it. The next best thing.)

'I'll make you feel real good, _Uncle Jyrki_ ,' you purr, and there's that troubled look in his eyes, guilt and lust all at one go and you think _point for me_ as you reach for the clasp of his jeans, undoing it.

'How old are you again,' he asks, covering his face with his palm. He doesn't dare to look at you as you kneel in between his legs and reach for his cock, licking the tip slowly. This isn't like fumbling with another boy and trying to one up him with how good you are, this is more about you acting out your little fantasy. It's better if he covers his face. Like this, you can pretend...

'Old enough,' you say sweetly, before wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock.

He moans, hands fisted by his sides as you take more of him into your mouth.

 

You know what Mika wants to say. Something along the lines of _we shouldn't be doing this_ and _you're too young_ and _what would your father think if he knew_ and you bite back your laughter.

Oh, you'd love to know what your father thinks of you bringing his precious protégés to bed. His golden boy, bouncing up and down on the lap of a driver old enough to be his father, riding his cock like his life depends on it. What would your father say? Would he stare? Would he walk in and join? You wonder and you wonder but you don't say it out loud because who knows what the world would think, they would judge you and condemn you and when you look into the mirror you'd know that even your pretty face wouldn't be able to save you. _Only god forgives_ , that's what they say, and no one's going to be able to forgive you for wanting your father in that sort of way.

You don't know how and when you had started wanting him, when you were younger you had clung to your father far longer than you should have. You had always cried when you played tennis with him, at first it had been because he had won, and because you thought he let you win when you did, but later on you realised that if you cried he'd comfort you and pull you close and you wanted more of his warmth, more of his touch. You were too young then, you had reasoned later on, but as the years had gone by, you had always found reasons to stay close, reasons for skin to skin contact.

And as much as you don't like to admit it, the truth is you don't quite belong anywhere, and when you head to England it's funny because Lewis looks at you with a proud look on his face and tells you 'this is home' and you smile and tell him that's nice but really, you don't understand what he's talking about because you don't really know where's home. Is it Germany because you were born there you speak German watch German television but you live in Monaco you go to school there and everything but you're not exactly Monegasque, are you? You race under the Finnish flag but at the end of the day you're just a bastard who doesn't even speak the language and it feels weird when you see Finnish flags in the crowd and they're for you for you no one but you. But after the race when you've won and you're in your father's arms it feels just right, warm and welcoming, like there'll always be a place for you there even if you hadn't won anyway.

But it has been changing over the years, and while you know that the Rosberg name opens doors for you in some places, it also means that you've got to learn how to deal with the bullshit that comes with it on your own. No more clinging to your father like in the old days, and while you've always known that, you've always consciously pushed yourself away from him when it comes to anything to do with racing that's it and that's all there is to it. It doesn't spill over to other parts of your life, and well, yeah, racing and your personal life should be two different things, you tell yourself. Keep them apart and you'll be fine, you'd be able to see your father for who he is and not the world champion but they blur together, converge and diverge until you can't tell where one part of him begins and the other part ends. He lets you shine, lets you have your own place in the spotlight but sometimes you can't help but wonder if you had him to hold on to, had him as an anchor to hold you down, to keep you from floating too far away?

So you look at Mika, so willing to touch you and hold you and you kiss him and you think, you'll take what you can get.

(He's Finnish, but just like JJ he speaks to you in English and sometimes you wish that you could tell them to say only your name so the spell won't be broken but that would be too cruel, yet you take the cruelty of the world and let it sink into your skin and carve its scars all over)

'Nico,' he groans, fingers splayed on your thighs as he thrusts into you. You've gotten nothing on now except for a shirt pushed up to just above your nipples, and it's his McLaren shirt from one of his championship winning years. 1998? 1999? You're not too sure, and you suppose that like this, he gets to live out a fantasy, fucking a young fan, maybe. You'd like to say you care, but to be honest, you don't really give a shit about someone else's fantasies.

He repeats your name over and over again, a breathless litany as his lips move across your skin. And afterwards, when he goes down, settling in between your thighs, parting his lips, sucking you off, you fist your hands in his hair and you close your eyes and you pretend.

 

'Are you sure about this?' Michael asks. He's always asking the same thing. If you're sure and if you're alright and at first you had thought it was a pain (and you were seventeen and you wore your heart on your sleeve and to Michael it must've been obvious that you had wanted him but the truth is no, no, no, until today, what you want is merely what he can be to you and not him for who he is but he doesn't have to know) but now you think it's cute. Cute as in it's funny because he's a seven time world champion with his ways on the track but here with you he's so unsure and so uncertain, never quite knowing if he's going too far. Yet off he goes on the track, further and further both in terms of distance and the lengths he'd go to just to stop his rivals and when he asks you, half drunk, if you admire him, you laugh and kiss him on the corner of his mouth when the word 'no' sits there, unspoken on your tongue.

'Don't you want to see the pretty panties that I've worn just for you, daddy?' you ask and Michael looks at you, mouth dry. It's as if he has forgotten how to speak, and you laugh, reaching for his hand, placing it on your arse. 'Come on now,' you say, chastising him and he looks up at you, almost as if to say he's too old for this shit. So you unbutton your jeans, peeling them off you, and your t-shirt follows soon enough so that you're standing in front of him only in a pair of white cotton panties. There's a red ribbon on the front, just beneath the waistband and you look at him through lowered lashes, hands behind your back, looking just like a child who knows that he has done something wrong.

'Nico,' Michael starts, but he falters soon enough when he catches sight of the wet patch on your panties. He can see the outline of your hard cock through them, and fuck, you can't wait for him to get you on your hands and knees and fill you up with his cock. 'Is it-'

'My parents won't be back any time soon, if that's what you're worried about,' you say, as if it's some offhand remark. You're tempted to shrug, but you hold yourself back. 'Right now it's just the two of us.' You pause, looking at him, then you add ' _Daddy_ ,' voice a high pitched whine and it gets to him, he swallows hard and there's that moment of indecision again (always a joy to watch, he's so unlike himself in bed as compared to how he is on track) before he tells you that he's going to fuck you extra hard today because you've been a naughty boy, and that you don't get to touch yourself and you're going to come in your panties only when he lets you.

 

When Michael touches you it's with trembling fingers and quivering lips and you want and you want and you want and he's always willing to give so you take, you keep taking until you can take no more because this is the closest thing to the perfection you seek. And later on, he's dressing up and you're lying on your bed with nothing on, watching him, it feels like you could've had this back at school. Sneaking around with another boy in your own room when your parents are out but it isn't boys that you want, you want this with men like Michael who feels guilty but turned on when you go 'daddy daddy daddy' over and over again when he fingers you open and fucks you hard.

'I've got to go,' Michael says. He's different from the others you've had, he's not really your father's, not really anyone's but he's somehow yours. He was Mika's rival, that's close enough, and he speaks German to you in bed, unlike the rest and that, you suppose, puts him at a higher level. Closer to what you want, in a way.

'Come here,' you say, beckoning to him. He frowns, it's Tuesday in Monaco on a race weekend and you both know there are places to be at soon, him with Ferrari and you with Williams but for now, all you want is Michael's cock in your mouth, just for a while more before you part again.

'So greedy for cock, aren't you?' Michael asks, voice filled with wonder as you tug at his underwear, pulling them down to mid-thigh. You look up, giving him a wide smile before you lean in, stroking. It isn't long before he's fully hard again, and then you're lapping at the tip of his cock, swirling your tongue slowly, taking your time before you let him push into your mouth. Usually you'd jerk off while you blow him, but not today. Today you're content to have him pull at your hair and shove your head right down as he fucks your mouth.

When the doorbell rings, Michael jumps.

He wants to pull away but you dig your fingernails into his skin, forcing him to stay put. Michael's protesting now, saying that you really shouldn't when there's someone at the door but you can tell he's close, god the thought of someone watching the two of you turns him on. You file that information away for later use, and when he comes, you make sure that it's in your mouth and all over and when he pulls away, looking sheepish and embarrassed when he sees your cock swollen lips, red and glistening, you laugh.

The doorbell is ringing and ringing as you throw on an oversized shirt and boxers, with Michael throwing on his clothes quickly, following behind you. He really doesn't want to stay, but he slides his hand down your back, resting on the swell of your arse and it feels reassuring even though you don't want or need his reassurance.

You throw open the door before Michael even says he's ready and sure enough, it's your father in the doorway, looking cross. It turns into a neutral expression when he notices Michael, and you lick your lips.

'Dad,' you say.

Michael's clothes are a mess and he reaches in his trousers for something but his eyes widen comically and when he pulls his hand out of his pocket as if he had just been burnt by something, you know that he has discovered the panties that you had slipped into it earlier on.

'I was just leaving,' Michael says hurriedly, not daring to look at your father. He stares at you, there's a pained expression on his face and his tongue darts out across his lips, as if hinting at something to you but you act oblivious.

'It was nice having you,' you say with a wide smile on your face.

(Of course, you're aware that you've got Michael's come on the corner of your lip, and you can feel your father's gaze on you but you can't read it, fuck it's been years and you still don't know if you've got what you think you can get)

'Goodbye,' your father says as Michael leaves, almost tripping over his feet.

 

After Michael leaves, your father stares at you, long and hard.

'You should be more careful,' he says, almost as if he's looking past you.

'You should've brought your own keys,' you reply, when you know that you're the one who had hidden his keys in the bottom of your drawer.

 

But really, you couldn't have known that he had always known, but there had been nothing he had been able to do about it. And later on, you'll pull him close and whisper against his lips that it's okay, because it was you who chose to start, and he'll stroke your hair and tell you that you're still his golden boy, still the one he loves the most. You turn around and smell your pillow and it smells just like him and you tell yourself that it's okay, it's okay, it's okay.

(The truth is that it's far from okay because it's only like that in your head, and all you've really got is a head full of fucked up fantasies, a reproachful look and words uttered about how you should really race)

**Author's Note:**

> -written for [this prompt on motorskink](http://motorskink.livejournal.com/4189.html?thread=1495133#t1495133).  
> -thank you [alt-reayoon](http://alt-reayoon.livejournal.com) and [ellie-mayflower](http://ellie-mayflower.livejournal.com) for helping me with this ;___;  
> -title from nirvana's [smells like teen spirit](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hTWKbfoikeg) (lol i can't help myself especially since nico was singing it orz)


End file.
